


The Fluidity of Magic

by Minxie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: FEST: Snarry-a-thon (2009), KINK: dark!Harry, KINK: kinda-cracked!Harry, M/M, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 05:42:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/635696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minxie/pseuds/Minxie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which legend is proven to be fact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fluidity of Magic

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2009 round of [Snarry-a-thon](http://asylums.insanejournal.com/snape_potter/239864.html#cutid1), prompt #97: _"This thing of darkness I acknowledge mine." ~ Shakespeare_  
>  ~~Diverges from canon a little~~ Goes completely AWOL after page 745 of  Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (US hardback edition).  
> Thanks to @leela_cat for the beta.

_Legend has it that magic is fluid. That it waxes and wanes and even flows from the dying and into the living, coalescing in the strongest soul to be found…_

 

The air is full of magic. Curses and hexes vie for existence amidst the magic escaping from the dying. Light and Dark swirl in equal measures; neither takes control for more than a few seconds at a time, neither is able to gain a foothold against the other. Then Molly Weasley turns her wand on Bellatrix Lestrange, and the tides turn. 

Bellatrix cackles and taunts. She uses the names of Molly's children to sharpen the points of her barbs until Mrs. Weasley screams, throwing both Muggle and magical curses, in the end calling out the Unforgivable that no one expects from someone so matronly. 

Bellatrix topples over. Her face is frozen in a rictus of shocked amusement, a mask in death that is equal to the madness that engulfed her in life. 

Then her magic, amplified by her insanity, flows into the atmosphere and the Dark finally takes command of the energy within the Great Hall. Like a fine mist, it filters through the room, touching everything, every _one_ , summoning the similar magics, the darkness released by the likes of Dolohov and MacNair and Yaxley. It swells and pulses, growing as it absorbs more and more, almost taking on a life of its own as the Dark swallows the Light until the air is thick and oppressive. Then, in a cold rush, it crashes over Harry and, as the wild magic finds a home within him, the pressure dissipates from the room. 

Unlike the Horcrux that was held separate, this magic weaves its way into Harry's soul, staining the magic already racing through his veins. It twines around his core, melding until the two, the old and the new, are one… are _his_. 

Harry is replete in a way he has never been before. His soul vibrates with the new, unfamiliar magic that hums within him. The new darkness gives him an edge, adds yet another dimension while dancing him close enough to the rim of psychopathy that Harry is almost giddy with anticipation. Eyes wild, he throws off the Invisibility Cloak and exposes himself, taking the fight to Voldemort, unwilling to continue waiting for it to come to him. 

The Elder wand, clasped tight in Voldemort's hand, twitches as its true master steps closer. Harry can feel it beckoning, straining against the spindly fingers of the Dark Lord and calling for Harry's attention. It's as alive as any magical thing can be. Like the magic that once drifted through the room, the wand knows who its master is, knows where the power in the room resides, knows who will wield it for many years to come. 

The magic and the wand both simply _know_. And, as they continue to infiltrate Harry's being, he comes to know it too. 

Harry is soothed by the magic filling him, standing tall and answering Voldemort's outrage with a calm precision that only serves to push the Dark Lord's anger higher. He discusses Dumbledore's death with little more than a blink and discloses Snape's true allegiance for all within range to hear. 

Then, gripping the wand in his hand, ignoring the call of the Elder wand, Harry lays the last fact out: Snape was _never_ the master of the wand. He didn't truly defeat Dumbledore; he killed a dying man at that man's behest. It was Draco Malfoy who disarmed Dumbledore, and then – with a twirl of Malfoy's wand for Voldemort to see – Harry who disarmed Malfoy. 

The fact that Harry is the master of the wand pulls an ear-piercing shriek from the Dark Lord. The ghostly pale arm straightens and with the wand in his hand – the Elder wand, Harry's _true_ wand – draws a bead on Harry's chest. As one they, Voldemort and Harry, scream their spells. 

Their magics collide, sparking gold against each other in battle, until it becomes obvious to the two combatants that both curses, Voldemort's _Avada Kedavra_ and Harry's _Expelliarmus_ , are bending to Harry's will alone. 

Heady with the power surge, Harry sends the Dark Lord's curse back to consume the caster and waits, watching as the Elder wand arcs high into the air, eerily twisting and turning to fall into his hands. The silence in the aftermath is deafening. No one hears the high-pitched whine of Tom Riddle's magic as it funnels away from the dying wizard and into Harry. 

Staggering beneath the onslaught, Harry, like all great wizards, teeters on the pinnacle between Light and Dark. 

As Tom Riddle's shriveled body lies unwatched and unmourned, Harry hugs his friends, pats the backs of strangers, and accepts words of congratulations, relishing the victory and the fact that he is finally his own man. Each touch brings a small tingle of heat, of magic trying to claw its way to the surface. He moves in a fog, going through the expected motions and letting their warmth wash over him, until he is face-to-face with Kingsley Shacklebolt. 

Then, when he asks Kingsley to send someone to the Shrieking Shack, when he virtually begs Kingsley to bring Snape to Hogwarts, Harry feels a shift within him, feels his magic lurch sideways and the warmth is replaced with a bone-deep need. 

The slide of his magic continues, hastening into an uncontrollable descent when Aurors rush into Hogwarts. He watches them race straight past the shattered doors of the Great Hall and on to the Infirmary, bearing a stretcher between them and shouting that Snape is alive. Barely, but still… _alive_. 

Without hesitation, Harry follows them, follows the pull of complementary magics. He ignores the questions and glares and demands for him to stay, and turns his back on his closest friends. He doesn't belong in the Great Hall. Not now. Maybe never again. 

His place is in the Infirmary because Snape's place, along with a few others he can feel but not yet name, is at his side, kneeling at his feet. And until Snape is conscious and understands the circumstances, acknowledges and _accepts_ his change in status, it is Harry's responsibility to go to him. 

As Harry walks, Lucius Malfoy falls in line with him. One step behind, where the dubious and devilish belong. Whereas Snape, if the hum of his magic is any indication, belongs at Harry's side, a partner as much as a minion. 

Harry stands in the shadows until the ward settles for the night, until the other patients are asleep and the healers are clustered in the low light at the front of the room. Only he and Lucius are left to watch the steady rise and fall of Snape's chest when, walking on nearly silent feet, he moves to stand at Snape's bedside. He presses a hand against the Dark Mark, for the first time purposely connecting his soul with someone else's, and everything finally clicks into its proper place. 

His path chosen, his destiny sealed, Harry whispers, "This thing of darkness I acknowledge mine."

-end-


End file.
